Gethsemane
by Kurai Hitokiri
Summary: God... spare me... for I do not wish to taste this poison... to feel its bitter, stinging tinge 'gainst my tongue...' Jesus' agony as he faces death upon the cross. Based upon the song 'Gethsemane' from JCS


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the musical Jesus Christ Superstar or any of the songs within the play.

**A/N:** Hello, I am Kurai Hitokiri. Usually I write in the Legend of Zelda section, but today I wrote a religious story that I felt I would like to share with you all. I was listening to the song 'Gethsemane' from JCS and wrote a fanfiction on it. I hope you appreciate this story about the Agony of Our Lord... Please Review and the end. I would very much love to hear critique.

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**Gethsemane**

by Kurai Hitokiri

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The night extended its inky hand across the dry, rugged planes of Jerusalem. Within town, life still continued into the twilight as men and women squandered their hard-earned silver upon trivial tokens.

Night brought out the worst in many. Ordinary men were transformed into gamblers, drunks, and thieves. They became monsters with the sickening desire to drown out their worldly troubles in the stinging bite of alcohol or the sullied body of a whore.

Indeed, terrible deeds ran amok within the stone walls of Jerusalem.

Far from the avaricious thoughts of mankind and gruesome, dirtied cobblestone streets lay the deserted, rolling emerald hills of Gethsemane, or the Mount of Olives.

Within the silent solitude of the garden, three men lay against each other, fast asleep. Free of their tired bodies, they dreamed sweetly, far from the corruption of the supposed 'Holy' City.

They were young men, with not a single wrinkle of old marring their rugged faces. Their features were tanned and burned from the blistering, intense heat of the unforgiving sun, not one inch of skin left unmarred. Cheap, frayed clothing garbed their muscular build, the fabric long since faded from the salt of the ocean and the wear of everyday life. From their dusty, sandaled feet, crimson fluid gently oozed forth from callused surfaces worn by countless journeys. The iron stench of their lifeblood permeated through the sweet, perfume scented night air as it dripped thickly to the rich, dark soils.

From among the circle of weary, slumbering men, another emerged forth from the shadows.

He stood amidst them in his tattered linen tunic, faded yellow with sweat and age. Moonlight shone upon the man's nobly cut face, every handsome crevice illuminated by the milky light, sending an unearthly glow about his features.

The man stared upon his sleeping comrades with piercing, liquid brown eyes. Silky, shoulder length brown hair fell across the chocolate orbs. A crestfallen expression overtook his features as he gazed upon every man, untold sorrow filling wise, knowing eyes.

Parched, fine lips, surrounded by a fine brown beard, parted to release words.

"Will none of you stay awake with me?" The man's deep, rich baritone warmed the night air as it quivered with unspoken sorrow. The questioner stepped forward slowly, dying leaves crunching soundly beneath leather heels.

"Peter… John……… James?" His eyes drifted to each man as he stood, waiting for some response to his agony-filled plea.

"Won't anyone wait with me…?" his voice lowered to a near whisper, lost to the gentle breeze as the man swallowed heavily, eyes closing. "Anyone… Peter… John……… James…?"

Despite the gentle pleas, the travel weary men remained asleep, the words falling upon their deaf ears in vain. They slept on, unaware of their friend in need.

For several moments the agonized man stood, silent as a sentinel, as though waiting for some response. The ice cool air bit at his skin through the linen fibers of his tunic, yet still he stood, unmoved by the elements.

At last, he slowly stepped away from the circle, staggering as though wounded into the tar-like darkness of the night.

He stumbled through the thick, biting groves surrounding his quivering body. With each passing moment he grew more tense, his tripping gait growing swifter, breathing shallow and labored.

Branches tore at his tender flesh, droplets of maroon rain dripping upon the ground as the man ran from something unknown. Pain did not register in his hazy thoughts. Only the desperation, the yearning to escape, filled his senses.

Fate, however, did not mean it to be so.

Tripping upon a root raised from the earth, he fell upon the blood hungry soil, tunic stained dark from shards of dirt.

For a while, he lay upon the earth, taking in the musky aromas, listening to the harmonic chirps of creatures that shyly hid within the foliage. His breathing, though erratic, calmed slightly as he grasped the cool sands between his digits, clinging to it as though it were a parent.

With great effort, he lifted himself on trembling, muscular arms, looking up past the clouds into the hidden face of the moon. The sorrow pooled in his chocolate orbs as crystalline lines of liquid trailed down burned cheeks and glittered brightly in his modest beard.

"Father…" the man began, shaking, callused hands clasped in prayer, "I-if it is possible. Let this cup pass me by."

No response echoed through the hills to answer as the man buried his face within his hands, sobbing bitterly.

Sweat beaded upon his brow, falling thickly to the dark soil as though it were blood. The sand drank it greedily, feeding upon it as life, uncaring of the emotions welling from the benefactor of its gift.

The questioner looked up again, eyes reddened, voice trembling as he spoke once more.

"Father… take this cup away from me…" he swallowed thickly, staring into the sky with sorrow, "I do not wish to drink its stinging poison..."

For a moment more, he remained silent, words caught in his throat. He felt his fear, his sorrow well within his breast. The emotions mixed into a horrid cocktail, nausea the unfortunate symptom. His tears sparkled, falling to the ground as he fought against the flood of misery.

"Father," he choked, sobbing, "W-why? Why must I die… I've tried for so long… three years. Is that not enough. ..? You see how they listen… Is there something my death will accomplish… some message that it shall bring to Our People?"

As if to answer, a delicate whisper filled the air, speaking gently to the fallen man.

He straightened, closing lids his tear-filled eyes as the voice strengthened him. Its whisper embraced him as he sat, breathing slowing and tears drying from his bearded face.

The whisper died into the night air, leaving the agonized man alone once again. The night was silent, the leaves of the nearby olive trees rustling against the wind.

On strong legs, the man stood, staring at the sky. His tears, dried by the wind, had long since gone from his hardened, calm features. There lay no trace of hesitation left upon his determined features.

Only acceptance.

"So be it, Father," he whispered silently, eyes to the heavens. "If this cup cannot pass me by and I must drink it… Your will be done."

With new resolve in his step, the man calmly strode back to his companions. There was no turning back, no room for regrets or sorrow. His purpose, given to him by the Father, would be fulfilled.

He would die.

Standing once more among the circle of slumbering comrades, the man raised his voice, speaking in a calm, collected manner.

"Come, arise!" his voice thundered to them, stirring them from their hazy sleep, "Here comes the man who shall hand me over. The traitor."

The men, hearing the clink of armor and the sound of Latin curses, arose from their sleep, grasping at their weapons and surrounding their Master, determined to protect him.

Indeed, a legion of Roman soldiers, steely metallic armor glinting in the torchlight, marched upon the small party. Among the royal, bloody reds of their banners, capes, and clothing, one man stood.

He was dressed in the ordinary clothing of those surrounding their Master; worn, tattered clothing that had adorned his tired body for many days on end. His dark eyes held a glint of cunning as he stepped forward, looking to the man amidst his guardians and smirking.

The traitor stepped forward, pushing through the stunned guardians and bowing mockingly before the calm man.

"Hail Rabbi," he murmured, straightening. Without another moment of hesitation, the traitor placed his lips upon the Master's cheek, kissing him gently with a smirk upon his thin lips.

"Judas," the man whispered softly, staring at his betrayer with sorrowful brown eyes, "Is it with a kiss that you betray the Son of Man?"

Judas, stunned, drew back from his teacher, smile gone from his mocking lips and replaced with horror. The evil left him at that time, only regret and sheer terror replaced it.

To his apostles, the man spoke softly, putting a hand to the man called Peter's shoulder.

"Do not fight them," he said softly to his apostle, "Those who live by the sword die by the sword."

He stepped forward, allowed himself to be bound in ropes, still as calm as before. No emotion flickered in his eyes, nor upon his stony countenance.

And so Jesus of Nazareth was handed over to the Romans.

To be judged…

To be condemned…

To die.

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**A/N: **'For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son...' Reflect upon these words.


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